


Whispers From The Edge Of Sleep

by HalfshellVenus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night after night, in so many different dreamings, Sam finds that the brotherly bond holds over time and form and danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers From The Edge Of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Season One, this story was inspired by the “Stories I Never Wrote You” game.

**  
_The Enemy Invincible_   
**

It is night in a darkened forest, the smell of sulfur in the air. Sam and Dean are hiding, waiting for the appearance of whatever is stealing babies from their cradles. They suspect it is a demon, so they are here with the usual weapons and a few backup variants.

Footfalls sound on the ground as a hideous being appears, adrift in black robes. Its head is marked by large, curved horns. Its mouth is formed of _fire_. Sam has a sick feeling in his stomach, an idea that this is not a demon at all but something far more sinister. He is afraid to name this Something that forms the shape of legends.

“Samuel,” the deep voice intones, and the knife is slippery now in Sam’s icy hands.

Dean moves in tight next to him, switching to the crossbow as he raises it with deadly aim. The weapon jerks out of Dean’s hands and reverses direction, the arrow embedding itself in Dean’s chest.

“No!” Sam yells, as deafening laughter surrounds him. Dean drops into his arms, a look of shock on his face, and Sam falls to the ground under the weight of his brother and his own broken spirit.

He gasps, coming awake in the car with sudden, crushing relief. Dean’s worried face is so welcome that Sam can barely breathe as his brother pats his leg in sympathy.

He grabs Dean’s hand, nearly yanking him across the car as he grips it tightly against him. It is warm, living and real and _Thank God… Thank God._

 

 **  
_Dancing_   
**

Sam dreams himself on a plate, a happy Jello sun next to a friendly yellow star. They are bouncing a little as the plate moves, tumbling gently through the air. Sam likes being orange, likes the feeling of rubbery strength that stretches his arm toward the star and snaps it back again. Stretch. _Snap_. Stretch. _Snap_.

They dance together in wiggly unison, with such joyous and unpredictable motion. Sam is giddy with this feeling of loose, trembling movement, this jiggling dance he cannot control. Then he feels a sudden pain in his side, and sees the silver flash of tines.

“Ow!” He wakes to Dean’s fingers poking him in the ribs.

“You’re laughing in your sleep, dude,” Dean mumbles.

“Sorry,” Sam says. He lies there in the dark, his head groggy and filled with strange thoughts. His body is tense now, and those wonderful floppy sensations are gone.

He thinks about that antihistamine he took before bed. It was either really, really bad or very, very good.

 

 **  
_Whose Heart Is Speaking?_   
**

Sam is watching himself drive the Chevy, and discovers that he is in the passenger seat and that he is Dean.

He is weary and empty inside, and it is more than the hunting and the search for their father. It is the fatigue of lasting through too many years of loneliness only to have this brother-turned-stranger here in the car beside him.

The Sam is looking at him, with sorrowful eyes. The car pulls off the road and stops, and then suddenly The Sam is leaning toward him and kissing him softly, oh so softly.

He is filled with a sudden peace that crowds the sadness into distant corners, and his heart is lifting in his chest. He doesn’t know what this means—didn’t even know he wanted it—but he thinks things will finally be all right.

Sam wakes to the sound of Dean breathing across the room, and a sense of utter confusion.

He lies motionless in the moonlight, making shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling as he wonders exactly what that dream meant. Does he want to kiss Dean? Does Dean want to kiss him?

Is it only that he needs to love _himself_ more?

He wishes he could figure out whose thoughts were in Dean’s head while he was in Dean’s body, and who it was inside that other Sam.

His brother sleeps on as Sam turns the questions over in his mind.

 _Does Dean still miss him even though he’s back?_

 

 **  
_Moon Child_   
**

The house is too quiet now, and the walls are closing in. There should be more toys out, more signs of a childhood here. Even on the better days, Sam knows something is deeply wrong.

He and his son are all that is left of the family now, after his wife left them a year ago last June.

Daniel had always been a happy child, a small scurrying bundle of blond hair and big green eyes, with so many, many plans. But that once-bubbly child is so serious now, and Sam rarely sees him laugh. He misses the joy that used to fill this little boy, this child born of the Sun. Daniel has been replaced with a Moon-child, with a temperament his father doesn’t understand.

“Don’t you want to play outside?” Sam asks, and gets a solemn headshake in return.

But later after dinner, they will walk in the moonlight together. That little hand will be inside his own, so fragile and trusting, as they glide from path to path through the blue trees and black shadows.

Sam will wonder if this is their future, always living in the dark.

Why can’t he save his son from this melancholy that has taken his soul?

 

 **  
_Release_   
**

Sam is bound to a tree in the middle of a clearing. His body is one huge pulse of pain, arrows through his torso and every limb. He is Sebastian, martyred and broken, and he longs for the release of death.

A bright light blinds him as something steps out from the rays of the sun.

It is an angel, golden and beautiful, with a face fashioned from perfection and the body of a warrior.

It is surely unreal, this creature of light—a vision born of his agony.

Its fingers brush across his tortured flesh, leaving comfort in their wake. It strokes his face, such love in those understanding eyes, and it gathers him up in those strong arms as the ropes that bind him fade. Sam feels his flesh lifting heedlessly out of the arrows and his pain falling down toward the earth.

“I am tired,” he whispers, as they rise toward the heavens.

“I am here,” the angel answers.

It is enough.

In a motel in West Virginia, Dean feels Sam’s head burrow close into his shoulder. Then nothing is left but deep, dreaming breaths as the night continues on.

 

 _\---------- fin ----------_


End file.
